the boyfriend survey, pt. 3 (2021)

If you haven’t checked out the start of this “commercial break” in the Me and My Lists series, you can read it here, and you can check out part 2 here.

With that out of the way, let’s take a crack at The Boyfriend Survey as a late-20something!

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BOYFRIEND POTENTIAL SURVEY:

Now, here’s what you’re supposed to do, and please do not spoil the fun.

Copy and paste this into your notes, delete my answers, type in your answers and tag (originally 20, but tag how many you want, or none at all) of your girl friends to answer this then see what happens.

IF YOU GOT TAGGED YOU MUST ANSWER.

1. Dapat ba gwapo? (translation: “Should he be handsome?”)

If anyone answers anything other than “yes,” they’d be lying–humans are visual, after all! (It’s why I cringed so much when I read how one of my old answers was “I’m sapiosexual.”)

That being said, attractiveness is relative. I don’t think any of these questions ask about a “type,” but I’ll admit that I have several “types.”

Basically, one person’s yuck is another person’s yum, because attraction is a funny thing that way. So yeah, I’ll only date people I’m physically attracted to, and they’ll look handsome to me.

2. Matalino? (translation: “Smart?”)

Able to keep up a substantial conversation. Communication is extremely important to me.

3. Preferred Age?

One to five years older.

4. Preferred height? 

I came up with this nifty personal “rule” in my mid-20s, after getting my heart broken by too many men I couldn’t look up to (literally): “A guy should be at least one inch taller than your favorite heels.”

In my case, I’m 5’3.5”. My favorite heels are 5 inches high. So my height requirement is 5’9.5”, which I round up to 5’10”.

 5. How about sense of humor?

I’m fond of memes, dad jokes, and puns…like most people my age. Basically, either really smart jokes or really stupid ones: there is no middle ground.

6. How about piercings? 

I wouldn’t mind. Though my personal preference for piercings is ears only, since they seem to be the easiest to maintain (and I can steal his earrings).

I’m more into tattoos over piercings, though not face/neck tattoos.

7. Accepts you for who you are? 

Of course, but he’s got to be the type who can tell me frankly if something I’m doing isn’t right.  Accept who I am, but don’t settle when it comes to bad behavior.  I need to be able to trust that you’ve got my back, even if it means telling me I’m not at my best.  Of course, I’ll be the same for you.

8. Pink hair?

“Uh…no.  Still don’t know how I feel about dyed hair on guys, especially given the K-Pop trend…”

Me in 2013

In 2021, I definitely know how I feel about dyed hair on guys and that is: if you can rock it, you can rock my socks off.

I don’t mind. But they should be wary of the damage that having pink hair entails? I’ve had pink hair and it really is a hassle, considering the regularity of upkeep.

9. Mushy or no?

I used to think I didn’t like affection, but I think that was an unfortunate result of having received affection that came with an ulterior motive.

As you can see from my recent Me and My Lists posts, this is no longer the case. I like affection, but I also need to be able to communicate when I don’t like a particular form of affection, and have that person willingly back off without getting offended.

10. Thin or fat?

Never, EVER skip leg day.  EVER.

Me in 2013

I guess because I’ve started working on my own fitness journey, it would be important for me to be with someone who takes care of his own health. But, ultimately, someone’s body should be a matter of their personal preference, and not what they think other people would want for them to look like.

Because I’m quite stocky for a girl, though, I will say I don’t really see myself with someone super-skinny. Because I’m so vain, I don’t want to look fat next to the guy I’m married to. (MARRIAGE? AGAD????)

11. Moreno or chinito or mestizo?

Translation:

Moreno = brown skin; traditionally Austreonesian-Filipino

Chinito = part-Chinese or Chinese-looking; also, fair.

Mestizo = mixed-race, usually Spanish mixes.

I…really don’t have a preference? The first guy I ever really fell in love was/is mestizo. The guy I wasted 5 years of my life carrying a torch for, on the other hand, was moreno. And, arguably, all KPop biases are chinito.

So, yeah, no preference.

12. Long hair or short hair?

Whatever hair 1) suits them and 2) won’t shed all over the floor.

I will say that I like touching/ruffling hair, though, so possibly a preference towards those who aren’t bald?

13. Plastic or metal?

I…still have no idea what this means. I’m guessing it means credit cards or coins? In which case…GCash?

(Shout out to M, who still does not have a GCash. DOWNLOAD IT NA KASI.)

14. Smells good? 

I actually blend perfumes as a hobby, so I’ll likely make a gift (or two) of a custom perfume to someone I see as a potential partner. In general, I prefer subtle scents to anything too strong and aggressive. Citrus- and wood-based scents are a favorite, as well as good old Safeguard.

15. Smoker?

I’ve liked quite a few men who were smokers. As long as a guy is courteous enough not to blow smoke in my direction, this isn’t a deal-breaker. That being said, I would prefer to be with a person for a long time…so maybe think about kicking any unnecessary, cancer-causing habits?

16. Drinker?

I like a man who knows his limits and sticks to them. Alcohol, for me, is like any other food/beverage–the fun should primarily be the flavor, and everything should be in moderation.

17. Boy-next-door type?

Sure. Though I actually haven’t liked any of the boys next door. Or across my street.

18. Musically inclined? 

Ideally, yes. I’m fond of duets, but have rarely found willing partners.

19. Plays piano?

A plus, but not really a requirement.

20. Plays bass and/or acoustic guitar?

I live in the Philippines. Most men know how to play “pogi guitar” at least.

21. Plays violin?

A plus, but not really a requirement. Also, I hope he doesn’t force our kids to learn the same instrument. (KIDS? AGAD???)

22. Sings very good? (Shouldn’t that be “very well?”)

If they sing, I’d prefer it if they could hold a tune (i.e. they can hit the notes that they hear). But singing isn’t really a requirement, so long as they can appreciate singing (since I do sing).

23. Vain?

I’m vain, so it feels hypocritical to answer “no” but…no? I feel like one vain person in a couple is enough.

24. With glasses?

Doesn’t matter.  I have glasses.

25. With braces? 

Doesn’t matter.  Used to have braces.

26. Shy type?

I don’t think a shy person would survive me. For an introvert, I’m extremely loud and “outgoing.” That being said, I get drained by social situations easily, so I’m hoping for a boyfriend/husband who could act as a social “buffer.”

27. Rebel or good boy?

Good boy. Like a golden retriever. LOL.

28. Active or passive? 

I don’t like feeling like the dominant one in a relationship (read into that what you will), so I definitely need to be with someone who’s willing to go toe-to-toe with me in terms of being an active participant.

29. Tight or bomb???? 

I…have no idea what this means.

30. Singer or dancer?

As a frustrated dancer, I have a thing for boys who can bust a move. Blame KPop, I guess?

31. Suplado? 

Looking “suplado” (i.e. “snobbish”) is fine–I have RBF, so I get much the same comment.

But actually snubbing people? It’s a no for me.

32. Hiphop?

I listen to hip-hop, especially in the dance context.

33. Earrings?

Wasn’t this a question earlier? Anyway, to answer it again: I don’t mind, though I prefer tattoos over piercings.

35. Torpe?

I understand that men won’t make a move unless they think a girl is somewhat interested, since decent men don’t want to make women feel uncomfortable with unwanted attention. That being said, I’ve had a lot of negative experiences with guys who take “torpe” to an extreme: i.e. they won’t even entertain a girl’s friendly attention for the fear of giving her the wrong idea. So I really, really dislike torpe.

36. Mr. Count-my-ex-girlfriends-until-you-drop? 

I don’t really have an opinion on this, other than, from experience, guys who are like this usually don’t see me as a viable partner.

37. Dimples?

A plus. Namjoon is a bias wrecker after all.

38. Bookworm?

Not necessarily, but they do have to respect my reading habits.

39. Mr. Love letter?

I like receiving handwritten letters, but won’t require them. I understand that some people just aren’t comfortable with writing things out.

40. Makulit?

In moderation.

41. Flirt?

More into banter than anything else. I’m uncomfortable with people who are overly and overtly flirtatious. Playfully hitting on each other, though…that does it for me.

42. Poem writer?

If they like writing poetry, then sure? But if they don’t and they try to write one just to impress me…it’s not going to go well.

43. Serious?

When appropriate.

44. Campus crush?

I don’t know…I almost prefer someone who would understand the experience of not being attractive when one was younger.

45. Painter?

Sure?  Just as long as you don’t have the stereotypical “artist’s temper.”

46. Religious?

I think I’ve agonized over this point enough in my Me and My Lists series that everyone knows the answer: he has to be a Christian.  But there’s Christian…and there’s cultural Christian. Please be the former, not the latter. You can check out this vlog by Pastor Joe Bonifacio about the issues with cultural Christianity.

47. Alaskador?

I’m okay with it, but please be mindful of my limits.

48. Computer games geek? Or internet freak?

As long as it’s balanced with other interests, I’m actually quite fond of gaming. My cousins introduced me to Witcher 3, and M plays it for me. I really like the storytelling potential of games, and while I don’t really want to play them myself, I’d like someone willing to walk me through them.

49. Speaks 20 languages? 

…as long as I understand him?

50. Loves kids?

Non-negotiable, because I want children (biological and/or adopted).

51. Good kisser?

I actually have had several conversations about this topic with people: “How do you know someone will. be good at sex if you don’t try it with them?” The conclusion I’ve had is that if they’re good at communicating–both the listening and the voicing out–then intimacy will sort itself out.

52. Loyal o faithful? 

Both. I don’t think there’s a difference. I don’t plan to be the thing on the side, and I don’t plan for there to be one, either.

~aF~

you are in love

Pauses, then says,
“You’re my best friend.”

And you knew what it was:
He is in love.

Taylor Swift, “You Are in Love”

Boots by Mardini Shoes of Marikina

BF. It could mean best friend. It could mean boyfriend. But what happens when you’re in between?

That’s a question I never thought I’d have to ask, much less answer. And yet, here I am, able to comfortably do with one man what I can do with very few others–sit together in silence, engrossed in separate activities, content to simply occupy space in each other’s orbit. An ordinary thing for others, perhaps, but for a fidget like me, a serial people pleaser, someone whose bread and butter is being interesting, to be able to safely risk being boring?

What is that, if not love?

M and I have been friends for a year. I know, because–and he reminded me of this just today–I remember conversations better than he does. I remember that I messaged him a letter on his birthday (in the latter half of July; of course I remember the exact date but I don’t feel like sharing) in response to one of his Facebook posts. I remember that letter sparked a long letter back, that led to on-and-off conversation, that led to an enthusiastic invitation to play D&D and a just-as-enthusiastic if slightly shyer invitation to go out on a date (my first real date!) once lockdown was over.

I rolled my first ever D&D character (a half-elf Order of Scribes wizard) in November. We went out for Mexican food in December. The rest (and there is much more, but I prefer to keep the full particulars between M and myself), as they say, is history. History doomed, or perhaps blessed?, to repeat.

I’ve said this before, but M was and is the first person I’ve ever been “in love” with, at least in how I’ve now come to understand the word. Before him, I defined it in shades of rose and amber–constantly-linked hands, coffeeshop dates, the wide-awake dreams of a millennial raised on Tumblr GIFs, John Green novels, and CW show soundtracks. With M, however, I’ve come to understand that love can be all those things…but it’s also self-denial, disagreements, and–most importantly–the difficult art of communicating, even when–especially when–it hurts.

I haven’t reread The Fault In Our Stars by the previously mentioned Mr. Green since my university days. I guess, sometime in the last almost-decade, I think I got it into my head that I had somehow “outgrown” it, this depiction of love as a beautiful and sad teenage dream. If that is true, then I am mistaken–as “mainstream” and “cliché” as “TFiOS” has become, it is still, at its heart, accurate in its depiction of love as elective pain. “You don’t get to choose if you get hurt in this world,” Augustus Waters writes, “but you do have some say in who hurts you.”

Two nights ago, I quoted this line to M, and asked him if he liked his choices.

I am not M’s girlfriend, though admittedly I occupy a sort of pseudo-significant other position in his life: we spend most nights together on Discord. I find excuses to go over to his house almost every week. I’ve curried favour with his parents in the form of presents given out of genuine respect for them and gratitude for the man they’ve raised. Next to my mother, and to E, and to God himself…I suspect no one knows me as well as this man does. It would be all too easy to make it “official,” except that it isn’t. Not because M isn’t perfect for me–he isn’t, but then no one really can be; love is a choice, a promise, a repeating process of collaboration and compromise–but because for all of our differences, there is only one that I cannot budge on: the question of my faith.

M is Agnostic. I am a Protestant Christian. And 2 Corinthians 6:14-15 is clear and unbending on that matter: “Do not be unequally yoked with unbelievers….For what does a believer have in common with an unbeliever?”

A lot of things, as it so happens, but not enough to create the united front this broken-family child wants for her own imaginary children. Because, if love is walking while holding hands, marriage is a lifetime of never letting go–an arrangement that is not kind to people whose fundamental beliefs pull them in opposite directions.

M is seeking, and I am adamant in my refusal to be the one to guide him–I will not be Beatrice to his Dante. Instead, if he finds the Light I believe in, he must do so himself: a resolution M himself believes in, because, in his own words, he will not, “…rip out the core of who I am just to be with you.”

There’s no mincing words: I am in love with M. And I am sure–as sure as an anxious, codependent, abandonment-phobic neurotic such as myself can be–that he is in love with me. But, more painfully, more beautifully, for all that we are in love with each other…both of us have made the difficult choice to love ourselves first. It is a choice that brooks no compromise, no tearing at ourselves to be more acceptable to the other, no “I can change for you.” We know, as only two almost-thirty somethings can know, that even feelings as intense as this cannot guarantee ideal outcomes. That even if–and it is a big if–M finds Jesus and we pair off like Noah’s animals, there is no guarantee we will stay together.

The young are willing to risk it all for love. We older folk are still willing to risk much…but not our selves. Not who we have learned we are, who we believe we will be.

And so M and I remain at this impasse. He is not my boyfriend. And while I call him my best friend, the label does not capture all of the nuances–painful and lovely and confusing and wondrous–of what we are. Friends. Best friends. I think the best word for us would be learning: to talk through what we can and sit with what we cannot. To treasure what we have. To accept what we have has consequences. One day M and I could be together, but it is equally possible that one of us moves on before the other is ready to let go, and we will have to grapple with how having been in love will mean we will hurt, and be responsible for the hurt of the other.

“You don’t get to choose if you get hurt in this world,” Augustus Waters writes, “but you do have some say in who hurts you.“

Photo from source.

Two nights ago, I told M I loved my choices.

“I do too,” he said.

“I do too.”

~actuallyfrankie~

[fragment] millstone

I find myself, at inconvenient moments, still wondering what our children might have looked like.

Tonight, I let myself imagine: your fanged smile and my cat’s eyes; your towering height and my strong bones; your kindness and my fire. I do not know if I can call them beautiful, these phantom children that I miscarry in the womb that is my anxious mind. They are half-you, but they are all mine, and all that I cannot have.

I do not hate you, my ghost. After all, do I not call you friend? But, in these moments, I let myself admit that I hate what you have done: opened up Pandora’s box, when I had dead-bolted it closed. I wanted to suffocate Hope, to let it fade and die at the bottom of this chest of horrors. This is my chest of horrors: a chest of dreams long-buried because I did not want to dream of things beyond my reach. I did not want to want things I was not sure I could have.

I turn twenty-eight in seven days. In a time not too long ago, girls my age would be choosing their color schemes, updating their bridal registries. Marriage was a milestone. Family was a milestone. It must still be, for some, but for me, there is only a millstone tied around my neck, dragging me under, as heavy and certain as grief.

I never wanted a family before you. I always wanted a family before you.

Do you still remember those nights we talked of hypotheticals? I hope you do not. But I do. I remember you saying, “Hypothetically-hypothetically-hypothetically, if we end up legal, you’ll have an older brother and a younger brother. And me.” Forgive me for admitting this, my beloved fool, husband to fiction and father to phantom children–you were not the biggest prize. Rather, it was the promise of siblings, of a family whole and entire, that acted as your siren call. I fell for the way you called your younger brother by the nickname you made up for him when he was born, when your tiny fangs could not form the syllables of his true name. I fell for the affection in your voice when you said Mama or Papa, the way your eyes would light up in a way mine never could.

Once upon a time, twenty-eight was the age to settle down and have a family. But I have known–not always, but certainly long enough–that I am not the girl from these fairytales. And yet, here I am: staring down the barrel of days. Here I am, letting this milestone hang from my neck and drag me under.

Here I am, wanting something I did not want to want.

I want to be someone’s family.

I want someone to call me home.

(Our children have your hands, and when I take them in my own I marvel at how beautiful they could have been.)

~actuallyfrankie